Then he came back to his
looking-glass and, standing there, naked save for his dress trousers, he
saw that he was looking in much better health than he had looked for weeks.
The colour had returned to his face, his eyes were brighter and more
alert--the lines had gone. He was strong and vigorous as he stood there,
his body shining under the glow. He opened and shut his hands feeling the
strength, force, in his fingers. Thick-set, sturdy, with his shoulders back
again now, straight, not bent as they had been.
"Oh, I'm all right--I'm all right you know. I'll write some stuff one
day..." and even behind that his thought was--"that young Galleon, by jove,
I could jolly well break him if I wanted to--just snap him up."
And then the odour of the burnt leaves filled his nostrils again; when he
had dressed he turned out the light, opened the windows more widely, and
stood for a moment there smelling the smoke, feeling the air on his
forehead, seeing the dark fluttering shadows of the trees, the silver moon,
the dim red haze of the London sky....
II
He went down to his study. Clare must be in now. Bobby would be here in a
few minutes. He took up the _Times_ but his mind wandered. "Mr. Penning
Bruce was at his best last night in the new musical Comedy produced at the
Apollo Theatre--the humour of his performance as Lieutenant Pottle, a
humour never exaggerated nor strained.
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